Screams
by the-speed-reader
Summary: When she wakes, it isn't pretty.


_Hey everyone! Sorry it's been so long since I've posted, things have been kinda crazy lately. Hope you enjoy this little piece!_

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"_No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear._" -C.S. Lewis

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When she wakes, it isn't pretty.

It isn't like in the movies, when the victim – oh god, _victim_ – wakes up slowly, with eyes blinking, slowly, the sleep out of themselves; it isn't like the television shows, where there's family and friends surrounding their injured person, maybe a handsome or beautiful suitor grasping their hand tightly.

It isn't like the movies _at all_.

Her screams echo among the area, loudly interrupting every choice of sleep one might have hand. They echo of desperation, of nightmares fresh in the mind and of memories that are long gone, have been, but still come back to haunt. Her screams rouse him, rouse everyone, from their beds, but he can only speak for himself as he throws on a quick sweatshirt and jeans before padding harshly towards the small medical area that had been arranged for their injured teammate.

His head, his thoughts, are pounding with mystery, oblivion, and worry; he does not know what to do, a thought that briefly passes through his mind before escaping. He realizes that it was three am, with the sounds of thumping coming through the rather thin walls. Everyone else is rushing, he thinks. Everyone else is running, racing, towards the sound.

He reaches the room first, the screams penetrating every corner, every barrier in the room with every ounce of her being. His eyes barley take in the flickering lights and carelessly knocked over equipment in the bottom corner of the room; no, his eyes are focused on brilliant brown eyes, one that haven't been seen in _weeks_, screaming _help. _

He's not sure what to do, but instead he stumbles towards her, mouth parted, brain searching for words of encouragement. But he finds none, so he only grasps her shaking, shivering fingers, with the other hand flying to her shoulder to provide some comfort, to calm her down.

The moment his tough fingers feel the touch of her palm, clammy skin under his, her screams stop; her eyes flicker, her breathing softens, and she sinks back into the bed, mouth no longer parted.

The silence nearly kills him.

"Skye?" he whispers, almost afraid of what would happen if her name – one that had been uttered as a synonym to _hope _many times on his lips, one that had done damage to thousands yet somehow cured him – would escape his mouth. But instead of doing damage, instead of harming her, the young hacker manages a strangled yelp.

Then she sinks, eyes, once full of promise, diving closed, and her fingers going limp in his hand. He isn't sure what happened; but then another body pushes past him and he tenses, ready to explain, in a hurry of motions, what had happened. But it was only Simmons, looking to get a glance at the blinking and beeping monitors in the corner.

Fitz is standing in the doorway, eyes long since having chased away sleep; Coulson was there to, his fists clenched at his sides. But May wasn't – a small piece of him wondered if it was just because she had to fly the plane.

But the smarter side of him knew better; May wasn't a mother figure. She wouldn't come racing for help when it called.

There's a shuddering breath beside him, and when he turns to look Simmons crosses her arms and manages to look three times smaller than she is. "She's alright," the bio-chem graduate whispers. "She'll be fine – it was just a reaction to waking up."

His mouth is dry, his lips parched. He needs something, some sort of reassurance that his rookie would be alright. But there isn't any; Simmons only takes in his desperate look with a shake of her head.

He manages to swing his gaze back to the now calm girl on the bed, with pale cheeks and eyes closed shut. "When will she – " he starts, but chokes on his own words. "When will she wake up again?"

"There's no way to tell," the brown-haired scientist says softly. There's a choked sob that spills from her lips, unable to be contained, and he moves past for her partner to slip by and capture her in his arms.

He watches, solemn, as Coulson slips from the room like a wayward ghost, as if he had never been there.

When everyone's gone – save him, only God himself would have to drag him from her bedside – he sinks into a chair, his knees giving out from underneath him. His hands fly to his face and he runs a lazy hand through his eyes, preventing the sudden blurriness, cause by tears, to escape. He wouldn't cry, he swore. He couldn't cry.

But cry he did.

It was three days later when she woke again, so different from her previous time. He had been there, refusing to leave her bedside, when there was a gasp; his eyes swiveled to the limp, pretty form he had been staring at the past few days, just in time to see a flash of curious brown emerge from her eyes.

His breath caught as his fingers, never having left hers, felt a twitching. He watched, unmoving, not breathing, as she shivered, once twice, before focusing her gaze on him.

"Ward?" she asks, her voice dry.

He doesn't reply, choosing instead to let a mask of indifference slide into the place of the one that had captured him ever since he had been shot, becoming deeper into the shadows. "Rookie," he muttered roughly before turning and handing her a water bottle that had been placed – by who, he doesn't know – by her, untwisting the cap so she can drink. "Drink," he orders, his robot tone, as she likes to call it, taking over.

She does drink, with her lips taking in the water as if she hadn't in days. (Then again, she actually hadn't). When she's done he takes it from her, helps her position herself more comfortably. In the back of his mind he can't help but notice her curious glances.

"Don't get shot again, Rookie," he orders, his voice gruff beyond what it should be.

She manages a smile though, one that shouldn't be allowed to make his pulse take a beat. "No promises, mister."

He fights to keep the mask present. "You must be tired," he announces, turning away his face – he can feel his throat closing up and his eyes slightly wet. "Get some more sleep."

He's almost out of the room when she calls his name out. "Grant," she whispers. He pauses. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he manages, before exiting with his figure strong, his fists left loose among his sides.

The moment he's alone, safe in the comfort of his small room, he breaks down.

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_For some reason I'm only ever very good at writing sad and desperate Skyeward. Wonder why that is..._


End file.
